


The Summons

by codswallop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Oral Fixation, Other, Sexswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:46:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft-with-temporary-vagina needs seeing to, and there's clearly only one man for the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Summons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shame is Overrated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/284820) by [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary). 



> Coda to my crack sexswap fic [Woke Up Feeling Brand New](http://archiveofourown.org/works/319323), which in turn is based on PrettyArbitrary's [Shame Is Overrated](http://archiveofourown.org/works/284820). The cunnilingus never ends!

“My brother suggested I contact you.”

They were in a private room in that poncey club of Mycroft’s--familiar enough surroundings; Lestrade had been summoned there on several occasions before. He didn’t much like it, but he’d got used to it, more or less, though he still hated the way Sherlock’s brother just sat there in his well-padded chair like royalty when Lestrade walked in, didn’t even look up till it damn well suited him, and even then had the gall to look all impatient at him. As if Lestrade was interrupting him with something, when _he’d_ been the one to drag him away from whatever police or personal business he’d been seeing to. And no questions asked or apologies offered, either.

It generally paid off well in one way or another, but Lestrade could never shake the feeling of distaste. Give him Sherlock’s methods any day; at least Sherlock had enthusiasm, whatever else you might say about him. Mycroft always seemed so cold-blooded.

Then his mind replayed the tape of what had just been said.

“Sherlock suggested it?” Lestrade frowned, trying to imagine a scenario in which Sherlock would have enough interest to _suggest_ anything without getting all up into it with his own two hands. 

Mycroft looked different today. Mycroft looked...uncomfortable. He crossed and uncrossed his long legs, looking up at Lestrade with an annoyed expression, almost an eyeroll. Every now and then you could see the two of them were brothers; that was a pure Sherlock look. There was something here that Lestrade was supposed to get without his saying it, clearly, and Mycroft was waiting, bored with how slow Lestrade was being, already bored with the expression Lestrade was going to have on his face when it finally...

Clicked.

Lestrade looked down involuntarily. Legs crossing and uncrossing, neat trousers pleating as he shifted in his chair. 

“No!” Lestrade laughed, he couldn’t help it. “He never told you. I don’t believe it. And now _you_...” Lestrade’s smile died. “You want...?”

Mycroft held his annoyed glance for one more beat. Lestrade was about to be thrown out of the room on his ear, the look suggested.

“Not that I’m not interested,” Lestrade went on, because he was, suddenly. His instincts told him he had the upper hand here, or could, if he wanted it.

“We’ve worked together before,” Mycroft said quietly. “So I know you’re a man of discretion, Detective Inspector.”

“Better call me Greg for the time being,” Lestrade advised. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking.” His eyes were drawn down irresistibly to the x-marks-the-spot at the crux of those long and restless legs.

Mycroft watched him looking, and said nothing.

“Stand up,” Lestrade suggested.

Mycroft stood, and remained perfectly still as Lestrade walked close, closer, crossing the line into his personal space without hesitation, and touched the front of his elegantly tailored trousers. 

He’d been right. Obviously. 

“How’d you catch it?” Lestrade asked, curious. 

“Immaterial,” Mycroft clipped out. “An...indiscretion.” Lestrade’s fingers pressed, carefully, finding the outline of his sex inside the expensive suit fabric, tracing up and down along the crease, and Mycroft inhaled sharply.

“Take off your trousers.” 

Mycroft did as he was told, looking detached and tranquil now, fingers steady on his flies. He removed his shoes but not his socks (no sock suspenders, Lestrade thought thankfully; that would have been too absurd) and then his trousers, which he folded neatly and laid across the arm of his chair. He was wearing short maroon boxers, silk, expensive-looking, and he hesitated for only a wisp of a moment before sliding them down as well and placing them on top of the trousers.

His shirttails covered him now, and Lestrade reached forward boldly and parted them, looking. There was a thin strip of ginger hair, neatly trimmed. He ran his finger up and down the crease again for just a moment, and it came away damp. Mycroft was holding himself very still, eyes closed. He had freckles on his eyelids, Lestrade noticed suddenly. 

“Sit down again,” Lestrade murmured. “On the desk. Right here.” 

Mycroft looked as though he wanted to protest and obey at the same time, so Lestrade made it easier for him: took him the the shoulders and backed him right up against the gleaming mahogany till he was half perched on the edge of it already and it only took an awkward little hitch till he was seated.

“Don’t cross your legs like that,” Lestrade told him. “I want to see it. You. Show me.”

Mycroft was giving him the rather annoyed look again, but he uncrossed his legs and then, slowly, opened them a bit, pulling up his shirttail and exposing himself fully in the well-lighted room.

“Fuck, gorgeous, you’re...” Lestrade swallowed. “You want this? Really? Because--”

“Please,” Mycroft said, as if he were asking Lestrade to pour him a cup of fucking _tea_.

“All right, then,” Lestrade said, licking his lips--he saw Mycroft’s detached gaze go to his mouth and turn briefly greedy. You have _no_ idea, mate, Lestrade wanted to say to him, no idea what you’re in for. He cast off his jacket and tossed it on top of Mycroft’s folded clothes on the chair arm, knocking them askew. Then he pulled up another chair in front of the desk, pushed Mycroft’s long, pale thighs apart wider, and leaned in to part the ginger-fuzzed folds with his tongue.

“God,” Mycroft said distinctly, after a moment. Lestrade pulled back, and heard him bite off a short whimper.

“I want to lick you out properly,” Lestrade said, fingering him lightly, watching his face. “I want to get my tongue right up inside you all the way, make you come so hard your ears ring, and I’m not going to stop then--I’m going to spread you out over this desk and fuck you with my fingers while I suck on your clit. You’re going to be a squirming, begging, sweaty mess before I’m through with you. Are the walls soundproofed in here?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, his chest heaving slightly beneath the still-immaculate-for-now top half of his three-piece suit. “Please begin. Greg.”

Lestrade smiled at the concession of his name.

*

_That was magnanimous of you,_ he texted Sherlock, later on that night after he’d been dropped off at his front door by a silent black car.

His mobile rang almost as soon as he’d hit Send.

“No details,” Sherlock said when he picked up. “Not one. I plan to delete this conversation the moment it’s over.” 

“No worries,” Lestrade said. “I don’t kiss and tell. Unlike some, apparently. Two things, though--”

“No details!” Sherlock repeated sharply. “I beg you.”

“Funny, you’re the second Holmes to beg me for something in the past hour,” Lestrade told him, and Sherlock gave a loud groan. “No details,” Lestrade agreed. “Just this: A, _why_ , and B, would you _please_ not go putting it all round London that I’m the man to come to when you need...” Words failed him. He liked putting his tongue to use in that particular way, no denying it, but he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to make a second career of it. 

“You didn’t enjoy the experience?” Sherlock sounded offended on his brother’s behalf. Lestrade banged his head lightly against the kitchen wall. 

“That’s not the point, Sherlock. The point is, stay out of my sex life from now on.”

“I can’t promise that. I’ll make sure you’re well compensated, certainly, but--”

“You know, I suspected he might be a moaner, but I had no idea he’d go so high-pitched,” Lestrade said. “The noise he made when I--”

“All right! Never again! Please, Lestrade!” 

“I’ll hold you to it. Why’d you do it this time? And how in hell did it ever come up in the--you know what, no, never mind, I don’t want details either. You probably wanted some sort of leverage over him for some reason and I’m better off not knowing. Just leave me out of it next time, all right?”

He hung up. His phone made a _new message_ sound a minute later.

_John says I should invite you to tea tomorrow afternoon. To apologise._

_Can’t tomorrow,_ Lestrade texted back. _Got a date. No apology needed._

His phone stayed silent after that--for the rest of the night, in fact, even though he was on call. A lucky thing, that. He needed his rest.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ["Please begin. Greg."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/769168) by [basaltgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl)




End file.
